


Sparks

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Celebrity / Bodyguard AU, Drama, F/F, rom com
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-11-28 08:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: Jemma Anne Simmons is a renowned writer. When one of her book readings is attacked, she is assigned a bodyguard - none other than Bobbi Morse, a real life former secret agent. It's a reluctant partnership at first... but not for long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a belated pride prompt "Simmorse + Celebrity/Bodyguard AU". This is a short multichap, 6 chapters, that will be updated approx. every 48 hours. I hope you like it! 
> 
> -
> 
> Chapter 1 contains some references to animal cruelty (the subject; no actual occurrence).

Outside a storefront in LA, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Not one of sport-stadium proportions, but certainly respectable, and slowly growing as passers-by and new arrivals joined the throng. Some were drawn simply by the presence of the others; some by their curiosity about the film crew who had been setting up and milling about for some time now. Some, though, were there clutching favourite books and pens, beaming at each other, hardly able to believe that their author lived among them, walked among them, and was here, now, almost close enough to touch. 

Jemma Anne Simmons did not look like the sort to be writing about gruesome crime and torture and intrigue. She almost looked like she was more prepared for the position of First Lady; always poised, clean and neat, a lover of pantsuits and blouses and brooches and otherwise never looking like she’d just pulled her hands out of a corpse. It was well known, though, that she had a PhD – and, some speculated, more than one - in forensic biology, and had worked as a Medical Examiner for a good part of her career. It made for intriguing if at times gruesome writing, and a personality juxtaposition that was in itself a curiosity. Jemma was the very antithesis of morbidity as she smiled to her fans and waved, a frenetic and happy wave. The crowd cheered and waved back. Critics liked to complain that she was cold and superior, amongst other things, but her fans knew better. 

So did the reporter, Stephanie Garnett, who was herself a little awed to be out here today. It was hard to curse the fluff-news shtick when she got opportunities like this. She gestured for Jemma to prepare herself as the message from the station came through and the signal switched over to them. 

“… Yes, that’s right Troy,” Stephanie introduced, “I’m here with the marvellous Doctor Jemma Simmons, who’s doing a reading of her next book, _All the Madam’s Men_ for us here today. And now, Jemma, this reading’s for charity I understand?” 

Stephanie glanced at Jemma, who smiled, well-accustomed, at her and then at the camera. 

“Yes, Ms Garnett, that’s correct,” Jemma agreed, with charming showmanship. “As you can see behind me, we’re back at my good friend Daisy’s store Afterlife, where I launched _The Singularity_ last year. She’s been through some renovations recently - how exciting! - as the store just keeps growing and growing. Daisy! There she is. Come up here, come on up here. Daisy Johnson everybody.”

Gesturing to the audience, Jemma – and Daisy – received raucous applause. As it died down, Daisy blushed a little. 

“Ah, hi everyone,” she greeted. “I guess I’m not used to being on television. That’s why I was hiding in the back there.”

An amiable chuckle passed through the crowd, and Daisy smiled. Stephanie gestured for her to continue and, a little more confidently now, she obliged. 

Jemma smiled to herself as Daisy spoke. The camera loved her, of course it did, and while Daisy didn’t exactly love it back, she would do anything for her mission. Jemma was just glad to give her the platform. As Daisy recited her origin story and the details of her store’s Winter Appeal, Jemma turned her own attention to the pile of _Madam’s Men_ books beside her on the dais. They’d certainly picked a good cover image: the half-shadowed face of local model Agnes Radcliffe, her eyes and cheekbones cutting a fierce shape that demanded attention. Still, as usual, Jemma second-guessed herself. The Winter Appeal was primarily directed at supporting children. The passage she’d picked was probably not appropriate. Then again, being a writer of crime and espionage novels – and often fairly graphic ones at that - she doubted anything she wrote would appeal to that demographic. It was the parents, she reminded herself, that she was primarily after: the parents, and any other philanthropic adults, like herself and Daisy, who were interested in supporting the disadvantaged youth of their city… and who were also interested in steamy and dramatic spy novels.

“…But if you do have any children of your own, though,” Stephanie was saying, “it might be time to pause this video or tell them to play outside because –“

 _“Because that woman’s a murderer!”_ called a voice from the crowd. Or on the street? Daisy, Jemma and Stephanie glanced at each other in confusion. Blushing a little, Steph continued - 

“Because next up, we’re hearing an exclusive first segment of _Madam’s Men,_ straight from the horse’s mouth. Doctor, if you would –“ 

Jemma cleared her throat and picked up the book. She glanced back at the crowd, in case that voice interrupted again, but saw nothing out of the ordinary: just a little movement, but they were on a street-front after all. Feeling the weight of the pages in her hands, Jemma tried to think of the grit of the novel – a twisted romance, a race against time, a daring rescue and the power of true love – and when that became too abstract, conjured the more grounding and immediate thought of her own attraction to the model that she’d felt compelled to choose. Her Ophelia, right from the moment they’d met. Agnes was a lovely woman really, more into flowers and ballerinas than the stark ferocity of Ophelia, but the transformation from character to character had been just as inviting as each character itself. 

Now feeling better grounded – and all the more satisfied for the moment of suspense she’d given her audience – Jemma opened her mouth and began to read.

_“Skye didn’t know where she was.-“_

“BOO!” shouted the voice. A crotchety woman’s voice. Jemma tightened her grip on the page. Was she having a nightmare? Had she fallen asleep in front of the Princess Bride again? 

“BOO. That woman is a liar and a hypocrite and a _murderer!_ Don’t fall for her goody-two-shoes appearance!! Don’t fall for her false charity!!” 

“Ignore them,” Daisy suggested, in a whisper, at the same time one of Stephanie’s cameramen turned a camera to face the woman, who was still yelling, and now pushing her way through the crowd.

 _“The first- the first sensation,”_ Jemma read, pushing on _, “was a rush of air, and water. Soap filled her eyes, and burned –“_

“Just like you burned the eyes of those poor animals?”

“Excuse me?”

Jemma’s heart clenched. Her eyes snapped up from the page. The woman, the interrupter, was closer than she’d thought – now climbing up onto the small dais they’d set up as a stage. Bewildered fans glanced around at each other. Was this a stunt? What should they do? What could they do? A few of them started filming. Jemma staggered to her feet. Too late, she realised what this must be about. 

“THIS is what your beloved Doctor supports behind your backs!” cried the heckler, raising an image to the crowd. A dismembered rabbit, if Jemma saw right. Immediately, there were gasps of horror. Parents passing across the street covering their children’s eyes. More people pulling out their phones, to post about it, or Google Jemma. Was she sure she was not living in a nightmare? She couldn’t move. Her vision spun. 

“Shit.” Daisy muttered. “Jemma? I think we should go-“ 

Jemma couldn’t move. She couldn’t tell if Daisy was touching her or not. She was chilled through with fear, anxiety, and shame - and through the cracks was beginning to break a defensive fury. 

“Her public face is a lie!” the woman continued to scream. “Her good face is a lie! It’s for business, not charity! She’s an animal abuser! And she built not one career on it, but _two. SHAME Jemma Simmons. SHAME.”_

“Ex- excuse me,” Jemma managed at last, clenching a fist by her side, “but I-“ 

“LOOK OUT!” Daisy cried, but Jemma barely had time to blink before it happened.

There was a flash of red. 

Then black. 

\--

 

A flash of red, then black, as Bobbi Morse opened her eyes. 

The tiny room from her dream stretched out into something nearly three times the size; a small apartment, for sure, but not a prison cell. She coughed the stench of mildew away. Her real room smelt like vanilla, which was a little cloying, but was so unheard of in her nightmares that it never failed to pull her back to reality. Bobbi breathed it deeply, until she felt herself steady. She had a window now, and a ceiling fan, and that whirring sound was just the refrigerator. 

She breathed, and sighed, and dragged a hand through her hair.

(It needed a wash.)

She groaned. It was midday on a Tuesday and she was still in the dark – but at least this time it was of her own accord. Sort of. She had been sleeping, mostly because there wasn’t much else to do these days. She had no friends. She had no job. She had nothing to stimulate her mind or her passion, or to give her any real reason to get out of bed in the morning.

And she needed a real reason. 

Because getting out of bed _sucked._

Fortunately – or unfortunately, or somehow both at once – Bobbi’s hunger and other bodily functions were still in operation, and they occasionally gave her a kick in the pants. This was one of those times. Gritting her teeth, and hissing her breath, Bobbi dragged herself to sitting. Her knee roared with pain. She hadn’t stretched it properly in a few days, and it complained about this in no uncertain terms as she staggered to the bathroom to do her business. She staggered back into the kitchen, and made a cup of tea in yesterday’s cup. She looked around her apartment. A mess. 

(Not that much of a mess. She was a soldier. She lived Spartan so she didn’t own enough things to make a proper mess. She could certainly afford to take out the garbage though. And her hair really did need a wash.) 

With a grunt, Bobbi sat down at the little table in the kitchen. It still had wrappers on it from dinner with Hunter the night before. Kebabs. She smiled – a little fondly, a little in pain – as she flicked the wrappers into the bin. Both trained servicemen and practiced liars with egos and stubbornness to spare, she and Hunter had a complicated history, but he would never let her rot alone. This, she loved and hated him for. Usually somehow in equal parts.

Bobbi’s phone went off then, and she rolled her eyes. Speak of the devil.

_STRETCH._

_STRETCH._

_STRETCH._

_ARE YOU STRETCHING?_

“Screw you, Hunter,” she muttered, and started to type as much when the little typing dots appeared once again on her own screen. 

 _Also, buy vegetables,_ the next message said. 

_And razors._

_And something to make your eyes pop._

Bobbi scoffed. “Asshole.” 

Then another message came through. A link, with a brief annotation: 

_May have just got you a job interview._


	2. Chapter 2

“No-“ 

It was the morning after The Incident, and Jemma’s phone had been ringing off the hook since she’d awoken. She rolled her eyes at the somewhat frantic voice on the other end of the line: it was hard to get a word in edgewise with her mother at the best of times, not least when she was worried. They’d been arguing back and forth for a good half an hour now, and Jemma had taken up a spot in front of her dresser mirror, tweaking her hair as they talked. It didn’t quite sit right, or feel right – and of course it wouldn’t, having been dunked in paint and then washed to within an inch of its life. Jemma could swear that she could still see red, no matter how she pulled at it or tucked it away or patted it down.

“Mum I’m not _scared,”_ she insisted. “I just need to help Daisy clean up! She puts every penny into that store, I can’t just – No, It’s just a little reshuffle, some rescheduling, the- _no,_ Mum, the magazines are after me even more, if anything, it’ll be fine! I promise! Ugh, –“ 

She glared into the mirror as her mother repeated for at least the fourth time that morning, that she “shouldn’t let the haters win.” Jemma groaned. 

“Mum – Mum, you’re using ‘hater’ wrong. She wasn’t ‘a hater’, she threw blood at me. Literally! Blood! Well, fake blood, but the symbolism was there. This isn’t some slighted fan who thinks Fitz and Ophelia should have ended up together, this is a woman who thinks I _dismember baby animals_ in my free time for fun!” 

Jemma had meant it to point out a logical difference in severity; she had long maintained a separation between literary criticism, and socio-political commentary surrounding herself and her work. Unfortunately, her mother did not see such a distinction – or at least didn’t find it comforting – and shrieked in Jemma’s ear, near hysterics. Jemma groaned. 

“No, I’m not _in danger,_ don’t be ridiculous!” she insisted, though her hand trembled a little as she adjusted her collar. “I’m spending the day at Daisy’s and that’s final! Why? What are you going to do about it, hm? Ground me?” 

Jemma bit her lip. That would rein her mother in, for sure, but it wasn’t the most comfortable way of doing so: they’d had a major falling out when Jemma had insisted on moving to the States, and Marjorie Kathleen Simmons had never quite got over her little girl growing up.

 _“Just –“_ she requested, resigned. _“Just give it a try, love, okay?”_

“Give what a try, Mum?” Jemma snipped. 

 _“The meeting!”_ Marge repeated brusquely, just as frustrated as her daughter was, and now with a bitter edge of offense to her tone. “ _With the personal security agent! I’ve set it all up for you, at ten o’clock, that’s what this phone call was about! Since apparently, I can’t just call to tell my daughter I love her. She’s a grown woman, you know.”_

Jemma nodded. It was cold, but she’d deserved that one. 

“All right. Fine,” she conceded. “Where’s this meeting then?”

\--

“Where did you say it was again?” Bobbi asked, glancing over the milling patrons instinctively as she peeled back the paper on her wrap and bit down. She had clean hair, new sunglasses, and Cajun chicken and salad. The small blessings in life. And, possibly, a job interview. Feeling quite victorious, Bobbi smiled into a warm ray of sunshine as Hunter returned to the table with some Mexican sodas and a plate of nachos. 

“It’s some swanky publishing office uptown,” he explained. “Triskellion. It’s for that author - you know, the rabbit killer. Whatsername. Simmons. Apparently with all this fearmongering about, her people thought they’d better get prepared before it escalates.” 

Bobbi hummed thoughtfully. By some estimates, hiring a bodyguard was escalating the situation in and of itself, but she couldn’t blame this Simmons woman for being worried. A lot worse things happened to perfectly ordinary people these days than getting covered in a bit of paint, especially where there was a political stand and media spectacle to be had. 

“Come _on!”_ Hunter cried, seeing her hesitation. “You _can not_ still be thinking about this! It’s perfect! Gives you money, socialisation, a reason to get out of bed, get out of the house - and keeps your skills sharp.”

“And what if my skills are too sharp, hm?” Bobbi retorted. She glanced around at the people that milled about on their own lunch breaks, and leaned across the table. “I don’t want to be one of those cops on the news. I don’t want some poor soul to lose their life because my trigger finger was a little too itchy. I’m a soldier. I’m not built to stand around and look pretty.” 

“Contrary to popular belief.”

Bobbi snorted. Hunter’s expression sobered and he nodded in sympathy. 

“I get it, Bob. I do,” he assured her. “But you haven’t got a bad call against you yet, and you’ve got to get back on the horse eventually. Midday naps and the sound of my voice, dulcet though it is, aren’t going to keep you going. You need sustenance – I’m talking physical and mental. You, my dear, need a job. And the pickings are slim out there, so unless you want to try making a living as a model for hair products, this is what I’ve got.”

Bobbi snorted. Hunter cracked open a bottle of soda and passed it to her. 

“Look,” he offered. “How ‘bout you don’t take a gun into the field? That way, you can do a lot less damage on the _off chance_ you do lose your marbles, but you’ll still be offering this Simmons girl the best in the business. Think about it. You could still defend her, and yourself, without putting anyone else in danger unnecessarily. You know you have the skills for it.” 

“Mm. But… my knee –“ 

“Just needs a bit of a stretch! And if you have a good reason to look after it, you’ll build strength back up in no time. Plus, meantime, you can teach Ms Simmons how to defend _herself,_ so you won’t even be bending the truth that far.”

Bobbi glared at him. She was running out of reasons – out of excuses – and he knew it. He winked at her. 

“C’mon Bob,” he teased. “She’s just your type, too.”

\--

As Jemma made her way to Triskellion HQ, she began to rethink what she’d told her mother over the phone. She eyed every backpack that she passed with suspicion; she felt watched by every phone. She couldn’t help it. Her heart raced involuntarily and, standing in the elevator headed to the 23rd floor, she had to open her mouth and breathe like an overheated chicken to manage the feeling that the lift was going to suddenly come to a halt – or worse, come crashing down with her inside it. She was more relieved than she would admit when it came time to sprint down the hall, under the guise of running late, and duck into the stable, familiar room that was her publisher’s office.

“How’re you feeling?” asked Phil Coulson, her agent, already on his way to take her coat and pass a cup of tea (made with love, if not a great deal of skill) into her hands.

“Oh, you know,” Jemma said breathily, and shrugged. Her fingers clenched the mug of tea. “It could be worse.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” insisted Victoria Hand, her publisher. Hand stood up from behind her desk with a fierce and solemn expression. “We look after our people here, Jemma. Phil here assures me he’s doing everything he can to arrange a counter-narrative for the media. He’ll no doubt be needing your help with that shortly, but in the meantime… your mother called, and suggested that we arrange for some personal security to accompany you until this goes away.” 

“My mother has fingers in too many pies in my life,” Jemma complained. “Don’t mind her.” 

“And I suppose the floors outside this office have suddenly changed to lava, or do you jog in those heels for fun?” Despite the slightest of raised eyebrows, Hand’s expression remained steady and powerful. “In this instance, I agreed with your mother. There’s too much at stake for people like us to walk around with a target on our backs and no shield on our arms. Just until this dies down, I think you should take up the offer. We can allocate a little from your events budget to supplement the cost. And, I believe, we’ve already found the perfect candidate.”

The door at the back of the office opened and Jemma turned to face the woman entering. Tall. Blonde. Sharp eyes. Biceps to kill for.

“Jemma Simmons,” Hand introduced. “Meet actual real-life former secret agent, Barbara Morse.” 

\-- 

“It’s Bobbi, please,” Bobbi corrected, and offered her hand.

“Bobbi. H-Hello. Simmons – Uh, Doctor Jemma Simmons.”

Jemma stepped forward to shake it, and Bobbi grinned. She was prim and proper, the type that carried authority with friendliness when she was in her element. At present, though, she was very much not in her element, and was staring up at Bobbi with bewilderment in her big, round eyes. They were a little entrancing. It was like staring down at a real life Disney princess. A real life princess who, apparently, thought she was Wonder Woman. Bobbi could work with that.

“I hear you’re in need of a little personal security?” 

Unfortunately, that seemed to break the spell – though, Bobbi had to admit, even Jemma’s pout was adorable. 

“Apparently,” Jemma grumbled, and then quickly recovered her sweet smile. “Not that I’m not grateful for your presence of course, Bobbi, it’s just that I find my _many ‘parents’_ a little overbearing at present, and I’m wondering if this isn’t an overreaction.” 

She turned on the suit, Coulson, with a raised eyebrow. Ah, there was some of that authority. Bobbi pressed her lips together, determined not to speak ill of anyone, or look too amused, especially since she didn’t know who was hiring her.

“Well,” Coulson retorted, “I’m not letting you stand out against this in public any time soon without someone backing you up, so it’s your call.”

Jemma ground her teeth together. Hand’s lip twitched, amused by something of Jemma’s that Bobbi couldn’t see. After a moment, she smiled smoothly at Bobbi and gestured to a chair by her desk. 

“Agent Morse,” she offered. “If you will.”

Bobbi took a deep breath. She definitely held the armrests too tightly and she definitely felt like swearing as she lowered herself into the seat, her knee feeling as stiff as a steel pipe, but once she was down, nobody was looking strangely at her. She was smiling as sweetly as Jemma had by the time the interview began.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft. Overprotective Daisy.
> 
> tw: (non graphic) torture mention

“Hi! I’m here!” Jemma called, pushing through the door of Afterlife. A little bell tinkled, announcing her arrival, and Daisy looked up at her, a sopping mess sitting on a sopping floor. She had on overalls – now patched with red paint – and her hair was thrown up scrappily into a bun. Her cheeks were flushed with the effort of having been scrubbing the floor for so long, but at least that meant the blush didn’t show when she noticed Jemma’s guest. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Jemma apologised. “Or, I guess, _we’re_ late? I’m not sure of the etiquette to be honest.”

Daisy shrugged, and wiped her hand on a rag before offering it to Bobbi.

“Sorry about the mess. I’m Daisy,” she greeted. 

“Bobbi,” she returned. “And apparently the mess is why we’re here?”

Both Daisy and Bobbi, at this point, looked to Jemma. 

“This is Bobbi,” she explained. “She’s my bodyguard.”

She managed to keep most of the disdain out of her voice that time, and Bobbi smiled a tight smile of gratitude in response. Daisy looked her up and down with new appreciation, and wider eyes.

“Bodyguard,” she repeated. “Coulson’s idea?”

Jemma huffed. “Coulson’s, Hand’s and my _mother’s.”_

“Ugh.” Daisy groaned in sympathy. “Alright then, let’s get to it. The red’s just about gone now but the wood’s gonna be a mess unless we figure out how to dry it. And then there’s all the stuff out back. Mack’s having a look at it now to see if we can salvage some of the toys and stuff.” 

She sighed, a little heavier than she meant to, and dropped the wet rag into a bucket. Jemma shook her head.

“I’m so sorry, Daisy.” 

“Hey, it could be worse. I hear shrapnel bombs are the thing now – I’m just glad you’re alright.” 

“So am I.” The taste of fear still stuck in Jemma’s throat. It had eased somewhat since taking Bobbi on – not that she’d like to admit that – but it felt silly to be so scared, in her own city no less, and usually such a safe city. Daisy nodded in sympathy and passed her a dry towel.

“Come on. These floors won’t dry themselves.” 

Bobbi gritted her teeth. The other women busied themselves walking on the towels, dragging their feet and laughing as they mock-skating around to dry the floor. Bobbi was glad they didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that she had knelt quietly and was slowly drying an outer corner of the wet patch. That way, she could watch the strain on her knee and keep her movements slow and small and measured, unlike with that penguin-waddling nonsense. Even if it did look like fun.

 _I miss my team,_ her heart whispered. In truth, most of them were dead by now, or in deep cover and she couldn’t have contacted them if she wanted to. Still, it hurt, especially with such a vibrant display of friendship mere feet from her. She scrubbed harder, gritting her teeth until tears of heartache and frustration and physical pain started to form – and then someone kicked her leg.

Bobbi yelped before she could help it, and though her body tried to respond in fight mode, her knee seized up and she had to catch herself instead. 

“Bobbi!” Jemma squeaked. “Are you alright?” 

Bobbi cringed. Her eyes moved from Jemma’s outright concern to Daisy’s sudden wariness, and back.

“That depends,” she offered, her voice a little strained. “Am I fired?”

“No, of course not!” Jemma assured her. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was my fault, I should have been more careful!” 

“But – I’m injured,” Bobbi pointed out. “Surely that…”

“…Would have come up in the interview if I thought it was relevant,” Jemma finished for her. Seeing Bobbi’s bewilderment, she explained. “I noticed you carried a lot of tension in that side. That, plus, your file said you had a medical discharge. A knee injury makes a lot of sense.”

Bobbi blinked, apparently surprised by her keen observation and logic. Jemma felt oddly smug about that. She hadn’t exactly been expecting to impress someone of whatever miraculous warrior stock Bobbi seemed to hail from. Nor had she been expecting this revelation to put herself so much at ease. 

“It’s not as though I plan to have ninja assassins hunting me down anytime soon,” she continued. “Just the odd overenthusiastic civilian. Besides, you’re a smart woman and you certainly have the structure of someone well trained in the defensive arts. I assumed you wouldn’t have applied for the position if you did not consider yourself fit for the job – or at least your friend did. If push really came to shove, I’m sure a little knee trouble wouldn’t stop you.”

Bobbi clenched her jaw firmly, and nodded. Jemma saw the steely glint in her eyes, and decided to change the topic.

“Speaking of pushing – it’s time to get onto Coulson, or he’ll be trying to put The Perfect Recovery Plan in place for weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just make a call. Daisy, maybe Bobbi can help Mack for a while instead?” 

She excused herself with a smile, leaving behind Daisy and her distrustful glare. Bobbi got to her feet, trying to ignore it – she’d had worse than the odd cold shoulder, and more than enough conflict in her life without seeking it out – but something about Daisy’s gaze, and its contrast to her earlier warmth and laughter, refused to shake. Returning a similar expression, Bobbi moved to challenge it, but Daisy spoke first.

“Don’t hurt her.”

What tone was this? A plea? A scold? A snarl? Bobbi frowned a little. 

“I’m her bodyguard.”

“You were lying to her. You put her safety in danger.” 

“She knew about it,” Bobbi pointed out. “She put her own safety in danger.” 

Daisy stepped closer, and Bobbi could almost hear her teeth grinding together.

 _“You lied to her,_ which means you’ll do it again. And she likes you. And you’re a dangerous person to be around.” 

“I’m not going to break her heart or steal her flower, if that’s what you mean,” Bobbi jested, though she couldn’t help but wonder if Daisy could really break her neck with one hand or if that was just what her eyes wanted her to think. 

“You have enemies,” Daisy growled. “Don’t you?” 

Bobbi shrugged. “Sure.”

“Enemies with guns. Enemies with bombs. Enemies who will come after the people that you love.” 

“Well, that’s jumping the gun a bit, don’t you think?”

But that wasn’t Daisy’s point. 

“So you decided to get a job _following around a celebrity_ who is the subject of _media attention._ You decided to send a beacon out to the people who want you dead and when they come for you, you’re going to be standing next to _my best friend._ And that’s fine with you?” 

Now there was a humbling thought. Bobbi dropped all pretense of defensiveness, all jest. Her friends were used to being on the front lines every day, where every decision was a dance between a network of dangers and every sacrifice relatively foreseen and relatively willing. She’d been expecting a strange transition back to civilian life, but this wasn’t one of the ways she’d expected it to hit her. The average person wasn’t constantly ready to potentially die. Jemma Simmons wasn’t an asset; she didn’t have a target on her back. Not the kind that got you killed, anyway.

“God,” Daisy breathed. “You didn’t even think about it, did you?” 

“The people that want me dead are dead themselves,” Bobbi assured her, matching Daisy’s grave tone. “Or else they haven’t seen my face. We have systems in place for that sort of thing. I wouldn’t have been cleared if I was going to endanger anyone.” 

“People make mistakes,” Daisy suggested darkly, and it was Bobbi’s turn to grind her teeth together. Her blood boiled. She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug in and she couldn’t even feel it. 

“ _People_ risk their lives every _day_ to protect people like you and your friend out there,” she growled. “I’ve nearly drowned, twice. I’ve sunk a ship I was still standing on. I’ve walked through Moscow with a bomb strapped to my chest and I’ve spent two weeks in a White Room. And that’s just the stuff I’m allowed to bring up! How I got this injury? I was chained to a chair and paralysed with poison and tortured with half a toolbox _for days._ I _assure_ you, _Daisy Louise Johnson,_ I am overqualified for this job, and I am sure as _hell_ overqualified for this _shit.”_  

By this point, Daisy at least had the decency to have lowered her eyes. Her face flushed with chagrin and shame and she blinked back tears. 

“Sorry,” she said, a little choked. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’ve just… had a lot of people fail me in my life. I didn’t want that to happen to Jemma. ‘Specially not with so much at stake. I know it was just paint, but…”

“It’s not always,” Bobbi finished. “I know. The world is a dangerous place. And I really do want to keep Jemma safe, I promise.”

“I believe you,” Daisy assured her, and finally got the strength to look up. Her eyes were still a little teary, but she smiled a watery smile. “Now how’s about I introduce you to Mack, who’s probably fixing a pram or something and pretending he didn’t hear any of that?”

Bobbi gestured for her to lead the way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much fluffier chapter this time I promise!

After that initial hitch, Bobbi found her new position to be, in fact, quite satisfying. She ate better, slept better, and started walking a few miles every morning before meeting Jemma at a local gym. There, she did her stretches under Jemma’s watchful eye, and then added a few extra drills of her own accord and eventually, decided to teach Jemma some basic defensive moves.

“No one’s going to attack you with a _knife_ , Jemma,” Bobbi scoffed.

“You don’t know that.” 

Which was true. She didn’t. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared - and to be honest, it gave her an excuse to get closer to Jemma than she otherwise would, and she wasn’t about to say no to that. 

Jemma, too, found the arrangement beneficial. Holding a grudge was a waste of time, especially when it had introduced her to someone like Bobbi. Bright, strong, and undeniably attractive, she sensed chemistry as well as brilliance. She wasn’t usually one for consequentialism, but in these circumstances the outcome did certainly help her move past the act. That, in turn, allowed her to shift her focus to the real problem that needed solving: rampant negative news. Now that she was no longer mad at Coulson (not that she intended to let Coulson know just how _un-_ mad she had become) she could leverage him more effectively, and argue for the chance to speak for herself. Now that she had protection, as promised, he would have to let her try, right? 

Apparently not.

Jemma groaned out loud, and shut her phone off. Bobbi smirked a little over her water bottle, at Jemma’s aggressively exasperated expression.

“What?” Bobbi prodded, a little teasing.  
  
“Coulson!” Jemma cried. Bobbi made a pantomime show of feigning surprise and Jemma rolled her eyes. 

“He’s set me up some interviews,” she conceded, “but they’re all with fan media.” 

“That’s important, though, right?” Bobbi pointed out. “Your fans would probably be the ones most hurt by the possibility that you supported… something like that.” 

“True, I suppose. But these sites already like me. Most of that fanbase is loyal. It’s always nice to reassure them, of course, but it’s not going to make this go away. I need to face the critics head-on. Call a press conference or something and just say what I have to say, and let the pieces fall.” 

She made a sweeping gesture. Bobbi frowned in sympathy, and Jemma sighed. 

“It wouldn’t normally be a problem,” she acknowledged. “With the 24 hour news cycle there’s always some other drama happening someplace. Usually we’d just wait it out, but with the book only just beginning its publicity cycle, we can’t afford to go dark. We just also can’t afford to have me questioned as a potential animal-torturing psychopath in every interview from now ‘til eternity. I know Coulson thinks he’s doing what’s best by me, with this whole Ten Point Plan and what have you, but I think he sometimes tends to see me as this bushy-tailed young author - not as a top-tier forensic analyst who started writing on the side of sticking my hands into dead peoples’ chests on a daily basis. I can take it, you know?”

Bobbi nodded, as if she understood, although she hadn’t been seen as a bushy-tailed anything by anyone in a long time. If people made the mistake of underestimating her, they didn’t usually last long. 

“And,” Jemma continued emphatically, “I think, if I say my piece, frankly and in front of the critics, I’ll have the high ground after that. All other speculation will be unavoidably tabloid trash. I can work with that. But people who use their hearts and minds to really feel, really mean it – who really care - thinking I did those things? That, I can’t bear… professionally _or_ personally.”

“I know what you mean,” Bobbi agreed stiffly. She’d been hunted down and almost killed over an admittedly contentious decision. Maybe understanding why she’d done what she’d done wouldn’t have healed many souls, but she liked to think she wouldn’t have had her knee shot out if she’d had a chance to explain herself a little earlier in the game. Fortunately though, Jemma and Coulson clearly had a lot of love between them. Nobody was going to be bamboo-splinting anybody anytime soon. So Bobbi decided to keep her nose out of the politics of it and instead, help where she could. 

“You know what you need?” she offered. “You gotta learn how to hit stuff.” 

Bobbi set down her water bottle and beckoned for Jemma to follow. Curious – and undeniably excited, for all she’d insist otherwise – Jemma obliged, and followed Bobbi to the boxing ring at the back of the gym. She looked up at it, suddenly finding it somewhat daunting. 

“I really don’t know about this,” she said.

“Trust me,” Bobbi insisted. “Hold out your hands.”

She showed Jemma how to wrap her hands, and demonstrated a few basic moves. Jemma repeated them back to her.

“Fast learner,” Bobbi praised with a smirk. Jemma blushed, and blurted:

“I graduated summa cum laude twice.” 

She blushed harder at that, and in her embarrassment, almost didn’t notice the amusement in Bobbi’s eyes. 

“And how many summa cum laudes do you know who can break a jaw with their right hook?”

Bobbi raised an eyebrow, and Jemma guessed. 

“One?”

“Soon to be two, I’m sure,” Bobbi promised. “Now come on up here and let’s go again. Practice makes perfect.”

And so they carried on. Bobbi did not want to risk sparring just yet, as she still had to mind her knee, but over the next few days, Jemma took to hand-to-hand combat like a fish to water. Bobbi was struggling to think of challenges she could teach and match properly with her knee as it was when one morning, late – as if that was not unusual enough – a tiny hurricane that vaguely resembled one Jemma Anne Simmons fumed into the ring.

Bobbi swung up after her, and though she gritted her teeth at the uncomfortable angle, she took a moment of pride in the fact that her knee held and she could raise herself to standing without reaching for the ropes. Then, she snapped her attention back to Jemma and raised the mitts. Jemma unleashed a flurry of fists at them, and even threw in a roundhouse kick – though admittedly not her neatest one – before finally settling to catch her breath. 

“Rough morning?” Bobbi speculated. Jemma rolled her eyes. 

“Apparently,” she explained, her voice crisp and over-enunciated, despite her heaving shoulders. “I’m ‘aloof’ and ‘out of touch’ for hiring a bodyguard. ‘Who does Jemma Simmons think she is?’ seems to be the trend. Started with one rag article and now Twitter’s got a hold of it.” 

“Ouch.”

Jemma punched it out for a few more reps, and then added sardonically: 

“At least book sales are up. It seems, amongst all this mudslinging, people are getting curious.” 

Bobbi smirked, feeling a swell of pride.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure with all these new combat skills the amazing Agent Carter is picking up, the curiosity will only continue to rise,” she suggested, cajoling Jemma with a brag in her tone. She eyed Jemma’s gloves, and Jemma blushed and shrugged her off abashedly.

“Oh, no, she has Agent Bennet for that,” Jemma protested, unconvincing. “Skye is the muscle of the team. Carter is primarily the brains.”

Bobbi shrugged. 

“Doesn’t mean she can’t pick up a few things.” 

“That would make an interesting development arc,” Jemma admitted. Bobbi tried not to grin too much as she inched toward victory… and toward Jemma. 

“Plus, I mean, somebody has to kick Aida’s robot ass into the nth dimension in the sequel, right?” Bobbi suggested. “And that somebody has _got_ to be Carter. Surely.” 

Jemma snorted. She was pressed up against the ropes now, both literally and figuratively, and her face was starting to feel hot. Bobbi was unflappable, and beaming with enthusiasm. Jemma’s heart leapt wildly in her chest, but she kept smiling.

“I take offense at your assumption that being primarily the brains means not kicking robot ass,” she objected, and both of them snickered a little at her vulgarity. “I’ll have you know I was planning a bomb or a trap or… something. I haven’t quite got to that part yet.” 

“Oh, sure, that would be very exciting,” Bobbi agreed. “But wouldn’t it be satisfying to have Carter just _sucker punch that bitch?”_  

Jemma scoffed, practicality and protectiveness of her story winning for a moment over the dizzying feeling of her pounding heart and the enchanting sparkle in Bobbi’s eyes. 

“She’s an evil killer robot, Bobbi,” Jemma insisted. “She’s not going to bat an eyelid at a punch in the face.” 

“Shoot her then!” Bobbi cried. “No, I’m serious, imagine it! Aida thinks she’s got them cornered, and so do we - like, the reader’s all ‘oh no, what are we going to do?’ – and Carter marches into the room all Cool Girls Don’t Look At Explosions and just BOOM BOOM BOOM. Shoots her. Straight in the stomach. Or the head, or wherever, you’re the writer.” 

“But I’ve already established –“

“I _know!”_ Bobbi pointed out, raising a finger. “I wasn’t done. Because by this point your crazy fans are probably thinking exactly the same thing like, what the hell is Carter doing? ‘We all know Aida’s bulletproof, it said so on page 12 of book 1!’ And so then Aida turns to her like ‘muah ha ha, puny mortal, I am an evil killer robot! Resistance is futile! Your very fast steel means nothing to me!’ and Carter’s already got her trap in motion, see, but Aida doesn’t know that, but Carter does – obviously - so then she gets to say something cool and one-liner-y like: _I know, I just always wanted to do that.”_

Jemma’s fingers tightened around the ropes as Bobbi acted out the theatrics going on inside her own head. Her confidence and bravado were alluring enough, let alone her pose; an imaginary gun on her hip and a smouldering glare in her eyes, biceps flexed. On top of that, the idea that someone as tall and smart and sexy as Bobbi was playing a character that Jemma had based on herself… well, that was just a dream come true. More than one type of dream, probably. 

She blinked like a deer in the headlights, and Bobbi smiled at her. It was a soft, sincerely amused smile, and Jemma was sure she’d been caught out as Bobbi dropped her pose and stepped in closer. 

_Closer._

Jemma’s breath hitched and her eyes fluttered closed and she imagined, just for a second, that Bobbi had closed the distance between them.

She hadn’t. 

And the music in Jemma’s ears was her phone, buzzing away in her bag on the floor nearby. She bit her lip and hung her head, and she felt like saying _of course that happens now,_ but instead she said; 

“I should… get that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for enthusiasm so far everyone!
> 
> TW: some references to harm to animals/animal cruelty (the subject; no actual occurrences)

The good news was, it was Coulson calling. In response to the new and more vicious accusations of Jemma’s alleged self-importance and self-separation from society, he had finally scrapped his multi-step media re-entry plan in favour of Jemma’s press conference idea. 

The bad news was that Jemma now sat in a cab alone, turning her phone over and over in her hands, wondering what Bobbi thought of it all. They’d dropped her off at her apartment to change a few minutes ago, and she’d insisted that she would meet Jemma before the presentation, but she’d seemed distracted. Had Jemma misread something, perhaps? Had she triggered something in her? Upset her somehow? 

Jemma jumped, her phone buzzing in her hand. 

“Bobbi?” She leapt to answer it.

 _“No, it’s me,”_ Daisy corrected. _“Why? Are you okay? Isn’t Bobbi with you?”_

“She’s meeting me – uh. Us. Later.” Jemma picked at a lock of hair, curling it absentmindedly. 

 _“Oh, okay.”_ Daisy’s voice sparkled with mischief. _“So it’s like that now, is it?”_

“It’s not like anything.” 

_“Yet. Wink.”_

“Shut up.” Jemma noticed she was pulling at her hair, and stopped, and grinned at herself. “Press conference at eleven, have you heard?” 

_“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. Do you want me there?”_

“Always! Can you make it?”

_“Of course! Mack’s minding the shop. I’m on my way. Almost.”_

“Want me to save you a seat?”

_“That depends. Do the front three rows get wet?”_

“Not if Bobbi has anything to say about it. Speaking of which, I’ve got to change. I’m all sweaty from spending the morning with Bobbi. And you can have that one for free.”

Before Daisy could say anything, Jemma hung up, grinning to herself and biting her tongue. She pushed the cab door open and jogged up the curb, turning her thoughts to the task ahead. 

\-- 

Bobbi, meanwhile, was out of the shower, and studying herself in the mirror. After coming back stateside, and before Jemma - in that limbo, trapped in pain and in bed and in miserable boredom - it had started to feel like the scars littering her body were all that made up her entire self. Her uneven breast, blown half to pieces and patched back together. Bullet wounds in her shoulder. A knife to the gut. Now her knee. But as she stood there in front of the mirror, with the whisper of an almost-kiss on her lips, she knew there could be more _._ There were opportunities for her to seize and Jemma was one of them. It was a little intoxicating… but a little dangerous too. How sure was she, really, that Shield’s protections had worked?

Sure enough to risk Jemma’s life? 

She had thought the worry over Daisy’s words would have left her by now and indeed, over the time she and Jemma had spent together, it had slipped beneath her radar. As she stared into the mirror, though, she became aware that her conscience had been gnawing at it. She trusted Shield. She always had. She’d even made some tough calls because of it. But she knew they were not without fault, and she knew witness protection wasn’t flawless. 

Of course, witnesses weren’t Agents, as Bobbi reminded herself when she got stuck on this thought. She’d never heard of an Agent’s bridge-burning going wrong. Then again, that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened, just that she hadn’t heard. Which probably just meant it had gone very, very wrong. 

And so she was back where she started. 

Bobbi brushed a finger along her lip. If possibilities had a taste, that was it. If Jemma had a taste…

_It’d be like coconut sugar  
_ _Like fresh flowers  
_ _Like tea and jam and cream_

She shut her eyes. She had to focus. If the incredible slimness of the possibility that Shield had failed her was not enough, she would have to settle for the realisation that she couldn’t do anything about it now except to make sure she got in the way of any trouble before Jemma did.

She flexed her knee. It mustn’t fail today. She mustn’t fail today. The big decisions could wait. She could quit later if that was what it came to. But she still had to show up today.

“Do today today and tomorrow tomorrow,” Bobbi reminded herself, and exhaled, and opened her eyes.

Her scars glared at her, and she glared back. She was still here. Nothing had beaten her yet, and it wouldn’t either. Not today. 

\--

“Where is she?” Hand hissed. Jemma checked her phone. Still no messages.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. She was tempted to lean around the corner and check the crowd, but she resisted. Her heart was already pounding in her chest and it was difficult to keep herself from flinching every time somebody passed too close.

 _Where are you?_ she typed, and her finger hovered over the send button. Too eager? Bobbi had never been late yet. There was probably no reason to worry, even if she was cutting it fine. 

“Oh! There. Wow,” Coulson said, pointing as Bobbi slipped in the back. Her expression was alert, her head on a swivel.

“Hi, sorry,” she greeted, her eyes glancing over everyone else in the room. “I decided to do a run of the perimeter on my way in. Just to be sure.”

“Good idea,” Coulson praised. Jemma nodded in agreement, and Bobbi’s eyes were pulled back to her. 

“… and I was thinking,” she added, “I might stay off the stage, since apparently I’m part of your bourgeoisie indulgence. I don’t want to be a distraction.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Jemma looked Bobbi up and down. Her hair was up, showing off her neckline and shoulders, and she had on a blood-red pantsuit and cream blouse that together achieved a casual combination of softness and ferocity that almost made Jemma’s mouth water. ‘Distracting’ was right up there on the list of words she would have chosen to describe it, probably followed by a hysterical gushing of embarrassingly British words of praise like ‘smashing’ and ‘tops’. She bit her lip for a second, pulling herself together.

Bobbi grinned, briefly, before a more sorrowful expression tainted her amusement. Jemma’s smirk faded too.  
  
“Coulson? Would you mind fetching me a water bottle?” Jemma requested, touching her throat as if it was a little sore. He glanced between her and Bobbi, but acquiesced, and while they were alone – relatively – Jemma asked: “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Bobbi assured her. “Adrenaline’s a little high, that’s all. Don’t worry, my trigger finger’s not going to cause any trouble. Just not quite used to working the home front yet.” 

“It’s not – I mean, you don’t want to talk to me about… anything?” Jemma tested. 

“Later,” Bobbi promised, but before Jemma could get any more details, Coulson was back and he and Hand were ushering them around the corner into the room full of paparazzi. Jemma was a little startled by the size of the gathering. How many outlets must be here? And – wow, how many microphones could one podium need?

Nevertheless, she stepped up onto the dais. Bobbi slipped down the side. A few eyes followed her, pens at the ready, but in the front row, one Daisy Johnson had her phone in the air, stubbornly recording Jemma, and a bunch of beat reporters who were trying not to act too much like tabloid trash eventually followed her lead. 

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” Jemma greeted.

Bobbi exhaled, feeling the attention shift away from her. Now she could work, properly, effectively, in the shadows. She scanned the crowed as Jemma spoke.

“I’ve come here today to address some concerns about animal cruelty, that were raised by an understandably concerned member of the public at my book reading earlier this month. I’ve not come here to apologise, except to the people who were caught up in that aggressive display. I’m just here to clarify a few things. One thing, really. The truth is, I have caused harm to animals.”

There was a flurry of photography and scribbling and typing and Bobbi’s eyes flickered over it all. She’d noticed something, and then everything had moved, and like a ball somewhere under fifty, a hundred cups, she had to find it again. And fast.

“I don’t know what was done to the poor creature that was displayed so gruesomely at Afterlife,” Jemma explained, “but rest assured that many of the rumours that have emerged since that moment are untrue. I have never been hunting - or foxhunting, which has also been suggested apparently. I think it’s the accent.” 

An uncomfortable laugh ran through the crowd. Bobbi clenched a fist by her side.

“Instilling fear and pain in animals for our own amusement,” Jemma continued, “is unnecessary and cruel and I would never support such a thing. Nor do I believe that animals deserve to be smeared with chemicals and poisoned for the sake of our own vanity. Cosmetic animal testing is a crime against which I have been opposed from the very first day I ever got soap in my eyes.” 

 _There._ Bobbi narrowed her eyes. Her heart raced. There, that face. The face of a man who’d hurt her, tied her up and beaten her, shot her, broken her knee with a hammer. It stung. She gritted her teeth and started moving. 

It was hard not to notice when Bobbi was moving with purpose, even from across the room. _Something’s wrong._ Jemma glanced down at Daisy, whose expression sunk a little with concern. Then Daisy mimed a strong arm. Bobbi was onto it. Jemma needed to focus. She felt like baulking, like running from the stage, but instead, she concentrated her willpower like molten metal in a forge and skipped ahead. In a few seconds it would all be over; she’d be finished, or something would be happening and she’d miss her chance. She pushed on.

“What I confess to is the testing of _medical_ procedures – and medical _only_ – on animals including, unfortunately, rabbits. I know it’s an issue that touches peoples’ hearts very closely and it does to me too, but the unfortunate reality is that our other technology – stem cells, for example – cannot as yet provide enough of a guarantee for me, or for many of my other colleagues in the medical field, to trust. Those animals do not suffer and die so that we can make our faces smoother and our shampoo tear-free. They do so that we can repair limbs, cure cancer, and make sure our medication doesn’t kill us faster than our diseases would.” 

Bobbi clamped a hand around the man’s shoulder. It was the same one she’d used to stab him with a handful of scalpels. She wondered if he remembered. 

“Come with me,” she hissed, and he pulled away, jumping out of his seat.

“What the _HELL,_ lady?!” he cried, throwing his arms in the air, making a show of it before he ran. The crowd swelled up around them - a flurry of cameras and notes and Jemma trying to calm them - and Bobbi left it all behind. She was single-minded, and her body was a tool of her hunt, and she felt the satisfying sensation of absolute control of herself flow through her as she chased him from the room.

Down the stairs, through the foyer they ran.

He burst out the doors, onto the street, and almost ploughed into the nearest police officer. Bobbi shot out a few feet behind him, and screeched to a halt when she saw the raised pistol aimed squarely at her chest. She raised her arms in surrender. 

“Do we have a problem, Ma’am?” the officer demanded. 

“I…” Bobbi looked the stranger up and down. Wrong person. Wrong face. His nose was unbroken. He was too young. The fear in his eyes was genuine; embittered with irritation and anger, perhaps, but there was not a hint of cockiness about it.

“I’m sorry, officer,” Bobbi said. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

There was a dull thud, and a shout, and all of a sudden the officer whirled on his feet. Bobbi reached for her knife instinctively, but the gun wasn’t pointing at her anymore. On the steps of Triskellion, they were about to be swept up in a hoard of very panicky reporters. Wisely, the officer lowered his weapon. Unwisely, perhaps, Bobbi turned and ran back up the steps. Her heart pounded. A familiar face ran toward her, all panic and blood. 

“Daisy?” Bobbi reached out and steadied her. “What happened?” 

Daisy’s voice was tight and strangled with tears, but she replied:  
  
“It’s Jemma.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied, there's gonna be 7 chapters! Thanks for the support, I hope you like it.

Bobbi ran.

She ran as if she could still stop it.

She ran with the sound of machine gun fire in her ears, and the hyperawareness of a potential IED explosion under her feet at any second. She ran with Daisy’s hissing, venomous voice at her heels - _You put her safety in danger -_ and her plea - _Don’t hurt her._

_Don’t hurt her._

Bobbi staggered to a halt at the entrance to the room. There wasn’t nearly as much destruction as she’d been expecting: she was more used to type of fireball that would have turned half this place to cinders, and blown the windows out too, at least. This attack was much more amateur - but that didn’t mean it couldn’t do damage. Chairs were scattered, singed, and some of them shredded with what Bobbi guessed would have been nails or glass. The podium and dais were broken and smoking, with a few little fires here and there. The few people left in the room were moving slowly, checking on their own and each other’s injuries or phoning their loved ones – or maybe their bosses; Bobbi didn’t know or care which. 

“I – I already called an ambulance.”

Bobbi turned to find that Daisy had caught up with her, and was pointing down the isle. 

“She’s still up front,” Daisy explained, her voice trembling and eyes growing distant. She couldn’t shake that vision; that scream, that blood. “It was so close to her. She was – she was unconscious when I went to find you. Oh God. I can’t believe I left her.”

Daisy choked up, and immediately, Bobbi grounded herself. She was in the presence of civilians – not just that, but friends of the injured – and her training kicked in. She put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder and pushed her firmly into a chair. 

“It’s okay. You did good,” Bobbi assured her. “Stay right here, okay? I’ll get you some water as soon as I’ve checked on Jemma.”

Daisy nodded numbly as the shock took hold. She was starting to shiver, and squeezed her knees as the fabric of the world came apart around her. Jemma had to be okay. She had to, she _had_ to. Daisy’s breath shuddered. She tried not to close her eyes, but the world seemed so loud otherwise.

“Give me your phone,” Bobbi offered. “Who should I call? Mack?”

Nodding, focusing as best she could, Daisy dug her cell out of her pocket. Her fingers were trembling and she was glad for Bobbi’s offer, not sure she could have operated it properly herself in this state. But Bobbi did not pass the phone back to her; she continued up the isle, on her mission, as it rang. By the time she had reached Jemma, Mack was on his way, so she hung up and set the phone down, staring.

Staring at the blood on Jemma’s forehead. At her torn pants, and bloodied and burnt legs. At her shirt, plastered to her skin with blood, and still stuck here and there with shrapnel. Somebody – Daisy, Bobbi assumed - had laid her out carefully and put a folded jacket under her head, but it was a small gesture in what was soon to be a world of pain. Bobbi clenched her jaw. 

_You put her in danger._

She inhaled sharply, and looked back over her shoulder. Judging by Jemma’s injuries, the bomb must have been inside the podium. Bobbi cursed herself as she studied the burnt shell of it. She’d checked around the podium, but hadn’t thought to look inside. It spent most of its life locked up in Triskellion’s storage, or so she’d understood, so it hadn’t been a priority – but clearly, ignoring it had been a mistake. What did that mean, then? Was it an inside job? Who at Triskellion would want to hurt one of their most successful authors?

Bobbi shook her head. She wasn’t thinking clearly enough to allow herself to come up with any answer that didn’t come back to her own fault. If she had not been late, this wouldn’t have happened. If she had checked inside the podium, this wouldn’t have happened. Of course, whoever set the bomb couldn’t have relied upon the fact that she was going to be late, and finding the bomb wouldn’t have stopped it being set. There was more at work here than her own fault, but it was so hard to see, with the stench of blood and burnt fabric and flesh clouding her thoughts.

“Bobbi?”

Jemma’s voice was barely a mumble, but it was enough to capture Bobbi’s attention. She scrambled back across the scorched floor to Jemma’s side, and took her hand. 

“Don’t try to move, okay?” Bobbi warned. “Paramedics are coming.” 

Immediately, Jemma tried to sit up.

“What-? What happened?” she demanded, and hissed through her teeth as pain ripped through her body. Terror and vulnerability and _pain, pain, pain_ forced their way into her voice and it trembled. She clung to Bobbi. “What happened to me?”

“There was a small explosion,” Bobbi explained. “A shrapnel bomb. Homemade, I’d say. Somebody was trying to do damage. Fortunately, they didn’t do a very good job of it.” 

“Is anyone -?”

“No deaths,” Bobbi said. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the worst injured.” 

“What about-“

“Daisy? She’s a little bloodied up and I think she’s got a concussion, but she’ll be okay. Everyone’s okay, Jemma.”

“Okay, good, okay.” Jemma nodded, and stopped trying to sit. Her body relaxed a little and she turned her head to a more comfortable position. Tears slipped from her eyes, stinging the scratches on her cheeks. Bobbi stroked her hair back gently, pulling stray hairs out of the way as Jemma blinked up at her. 

“Where were you?” Jemma murmured. 

Bobbi lowered her eyes, and bit her lip.

“Sorry, I – I was outside.” 

“That man,” Jemma wondered. “That you were following. Did he do this?” 

“No. I don’t think so.” 

“But you thought he was a threat, right?”

“Yeah.” She certainly thought she thought she had, but maybe her memory couldn’t be trusted. Bobbi bit her lip. Could she have risked Jemma’s life over a figment of her own imagination? 

With effort, Jemma found Bobbi’s hand, and squeezed it gently, beckoning Bobbi to meet her eyes. She looked into them earnestly. 

“You did a good thing,” Jemma promised. “You were still trying to keep me safe.” 

“Jemma –“ Bobbi found herself choked up and blinking back tears. A tumble of thoughts and words got stuck on her tongue as the paramedics rushed into the room at last. Bobbi sat back, waving them off her and to Jemma, and retreated. She tried to breathe. She’d made a choice – the best one she could have made with the information at hand. That it had been the wrong one was not entirely on her. Still, the guilt stuck in her heart, and as a stretcher was brought into the room, all the potential words evaporated from her tongue. After all, none of them mattered until Jemma was okay. 

“Ma’am?” One of the paramedics asked. Bobbi blinked. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Will you be riding with Doctor Simmons to the hospital? We can seat you in the ambulance if you’d like, but we should be quick, so are you coming or not?” 

“No, no,” Bobbi waved them off. “God. No. Daisy– Daisy should, they’re best friends. They’ve known each other forever.” 

“Is Daisy here now?”

Bobbi waved the paramedic down the isle to Daisy, and the paramedic pursed their lips. With the worst of the shock having passed, Daisy was alert enough to notice that she was being invited, and stood, a little hesitantly. She let the paramedics lead her, eager to keep an eye on her best friend, but when she noticed that Bobbi seemed to have no intention of joining them, glanced back over her shoulder with concern. _Why not you?_ her eyes asked, and Bobbi waved her on.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

The words were a hollow promise, but still, Daisy nodded. Whatever Bobbi was thinking about must be serious, or else she’d be on Jemma’s tail just as she had been almost every waking minute these last few weeks. Tears pricked at Daisy’s eyes as she realised that she recognised the look on Bobbi’s face. Part of it, anyway: the part where you’re wondering if you’re a curse on everyone around you. On everyone you love. No doubt Bobbi was recalculating the risk of her being in Jemma’s life. Daisy was grateful for that, for how much it meant she cared – but at the same time, it was sad. She no longer felt the same fury she once had at Bobbi for potentially endangering Jemma; in fact, it hadn’t occurred to her until now that the explosion might have had something to do with Bobbi’s presence. In fact, first in Daisy’s mind once she’d done what she could for Jemma had been that she needed to find Bobbi; to tell her; to bring her back to Jemma’s side, where they’d both want her to be. It had been a need fueled by Bobbi’s declaration of protection, and by how happy and safe Daisy knew Jemma had felt around Bobbi. Rough start or no, it was hard to face the idea of losing that over bad chance. 

Bobbi watched the ambulance pull away, with tears on her face. Guilt, frustration, and pain bled out of her, but she didn’t move, until the distant wailing sirens were the only thing left of Jemma. It was only a shallow comfort knowing that Daisy had gone with her. Her life signs looked promising. But Bobbi couldn’t help thinking _this is my fault._ She did her best to see off the other reporters, making sure that her mistake had not resulted in too much harm, and then finally Mack pulled up outside the front steps. Belatedly, Bobbi remembered that she had called Mack here for Daisy, and then sent her away. She opened her mouth to apologise, but Mack waved her off.

“As long as she’s okay,” he placated. “’bout time that woman went to a real doctor, anyway.”

“And I have her phone too!” Bobbi suddenly recalled. “Shit, I’ve made a real hash of this haven’t I?” 

She raked a hand through her hair. Mack sighed in sympathy.

“Hey,” he offered. “Can I take you somewhere? The hospital?” 

Bobbi shook her head. 

“Train station, please?” she requested.

Mack nodded solemnly and opened the passenger door. As Bobbi climbed in, she pulled her own cellphone out of her pocket. Calling Hunter, she drew a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. The machine answered, and she felt a twist in her gut. She didn’t know what to do. She raked a hand through her hair.

“Hunter, it’s me,” she managed. “I- I fucked up. I need help. Please?”

She hung up quickly, and bit her lip, pulling herself back under control. Trying to settle her thoughts, she stared out the window, watching the city pass her by. Another glimpse of another home she’d have to leave behind? 

She felt a vibration, and opened the message. Hunter. 

 _I’ll be right over,_ he said. Then: 

 _You have something good here, Bob. Don’t you dare run._  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! I'm sorry this chap took so long, but I hope you like it :D Thanks for your support!

Visiting hours were over and the hospital lights were dimmed. Jemma was awake, and bored. Bored of bed rest. Bored of her book. Bored of this room. She hobbled over to the window and looked out, searching for something. She wasn’t sure what. Her eyes scanned the horizon, but she couldn’t see many stars; muted by the city lights. The streets below were the usual hubbub of busy cabs, busy cars, busy people on their way home from work or ducking to their local take-out. Jemma felt a bit let down by it all. Strange. After almost being blown up, one would think she would embrace the mundanities of life, but now everything seemed so dull that she couldn’t help looking for something more.

( _For Bobbi?_ A voice whispered in her head.) 

It had been a week and Bobbi hadn’t come to visit - or made contact at all, for that matter. Daisy had sworn that she’d promised to follow them, the day it had happened, but Mack had told her he’d taken Bobbi to a train station. She could be anywhere by now. If Jemma were Bobbi, she’d probably be out of the country, on the run, or maybe even already buried in a new identity. The man at the show had been a false alarm, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t given herself away. It was understandable that she’d left. 

It still stung. 

Jemma poured herself a glass of water and let her eyes drift back down to the magazine she’d had Daisy smuggle in for her earlier. She wasn’t supposed to have contact with any articles about herself while she was in here but this one was of special interest. It was tabloid trash, nothing more than wild speculation, but speculation about her and Bobbi and whether or not they were in a relationship. Jemma snorted. She wished. But the grainy magazine candids of Bobbi out and about with her were all she had and damn it, Jemma was feeling quite pitiable at present and intended to keep them until something better came along. Or until Daisy convinced her to burn them in a Broken Heart Bonfire, but Jemma wasn’t quite ready to admit her heart had been broken. By what? By a missed opportunity? She sighed, and took a miserable swig from her glass.

“Woah, slow down there, Ace. That’s the hard stuff.” 

She froze. Then turned - slowly, disbelieving - until her eyes validated what her ears had imagined. It was Bobbi, in the flesh, standing in the doorway to her hospital room with a police shield clipped to her collar and a folded up sheet of paper in her hands. For a while, Jemma could do little more than stare and gape, and Bobbi smiled, a flirtation that did not reach her eyes. 

“Careful, they’ll have a field day with that expression,” she quipped. “Looks like they finally dropped the rabbit killer story, huh?”

Bobbi nodded at the magazine. Jemma’s eyes dropped down to it, even though it was obvious what she was referencing. 

“Most of them,” Jemma agreed, her voice tight. A flare of anger seized her. That Bobbi had waited so long and not explained herself… all of a sudden, this whole thing felt like a betrayal. Trying not to grit her teeth, Jemma demanded: “What are you doing here?”

Bobbi held up the sheet of paper. A letter. 

“Figured the least I could do was show my face.” 

Jemma’s anger dissipated at Bobbi’s solemn tone. She snatched the letter, and ran her eyes over it: Bobbi’s resignation, effective immediately. Her jaw hung loose, and it took her a few seconds to find the words to protest. 

“You can’t _do_ this!” 

Not her best, but it felt strangely like she was being stabbed right now, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t just her pulling at her stitches. Maybe it was the steel in Bobbi’s eyes, the stone-grey steadiness of her voice.

“I haven’t worked for you a month yet. I don’t have to give notice. You can check my contract if you like.”

“That’s not what I mean. You can’t – I mean, you can’t just – “

Jemma tried to pull words out of the air like ‘sudden’ and ‘unprofessional’ but they wouldn’t come, because what she meant was _you can’t leave me._ She wanted to be unprofessional with Bobbi. She wanted the sparkle, the steam, everything. And now it was so close, and yet so unfathomably far from possible. Bobbi shook her head.

“I made a mistake, taking that job in the first place,” she explained. “I’m not ready to be in a high stakes home front situation. It should be one or the other. I put your life in danger because I was seeing things, because I was being controlled by my fear and my past. I need to take a step back. Get my mental health under control. I thought I had it but I didn’t. I’m getting there, but I just can’t get there and be here at the same time. I’m sorry." 

She swallowed, and her cold resolve faltered, betraying genuine sorrow. When she stepped back toward the door, her whole body seemed to drag, and Jemma couldn’t help but reach after her. 

“But- !” Jemma cried, and cast a line into the universe for an idea. “What if – what if I hire you as my personal trainer instead? No combat, no high stakes. Just mornings at the gym three, four times a week. Whatever you want.” 

Bobbi hesitated. Her smile grew a little. Jemma felt her own grow too. 

“What?” she asked, daring a little tease. Her hopeful eyes begged Bobbi not to take another step toward that door, and when she stepped further into the room instead, Jemma’s heart began to beat faster. Louder. She remembered that day in the gym and her cheeks flushed as Bobbi confessed:

“Well, I… guess was hoping to see you a little more often than that.” 

Jemma tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. “Really?”

“If you’ll have me,” Bobbi agreed. “I mean, I’d still be happy to help you train, of course, but… maybe we could grab a smoothie at the juice bar after?”

“I’d like that.” 

“Lets set a date, then. When are you getting out of this joint?”

Jemma groaned.

“Well, at this rate I’m going to be on bed rest until the day I _die,_ but the doctors say I should be able to go home by the end of the week. Maybe we could skip the training and just stick with the juice?”

“You got it.” Bobbi nodded. “Next Monday at ten?”

“I’ll put it in my diary right now.” 

Jemma gestured to her planner (meticulous, leather-bound, and waiting on the bench a few inches from Bobbi’s elbow like kismet), and retreated to the bed. She groaned with relief, still not used to being upright for long periods of time since the surgery, and Bobbi smiled ruefully as she passed the diary over. 

“You know,” she remarked, after a moment. “I’m working with the police, on your case.” 

“Way to step back,” Jemma jabbed. Bobbi rolled her eyes. 

“I’m not a field officer, I just ask questions. I’m a consultant. And I wouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth too hard, missy.” She tapped the badge on her lapel. “That’s how I got in here today.” 

“Shouldn’t you be asking me some questions, then?” 

Bobbi glared sardonically. This was clearly supposed to be a ruse. But it would be good to have Jemma’s testimony, and now was as good a time as any to get it, rather than calling her down to the station, especially in this state. Obligingly, Jemma tore a page out of the notes section of her planner, and passed it and her pen to Bobbi for questioning. 

“Alright, fine,” Bobbi grumbled. “Miss Simmons, besides the environmental activists we have currently under investigation, do you believe you have any enemies?” 

Jemma snorted. 

Bobbi blinked at her.

“You _are_ joking, aren’t you?” Jemma could see that Bobbi was not, and almost laughed. “I was a forensic ME for almost ten years! My testimony put _dozens_ of criminals away! Criminals of the _there’s a body after their crime_ variety. Of course I have enemies. What are you smiling about?”

Bobbi tried to school her expression but she couldn’t. Relief sang through her. 

“It wasn’t me,” she breathed, by way of explanation. “All this time I thought it was my fault but it could have been _anyone._ Jemma, I’m sorry, but – thank God. _”_

She put her hands to her face, absorbing the realisation. Even she was surprised at just how much of a bizarre relief it was. Of course, that meant there were more potential enemies out there, but it also meant higher chances that whoever was gunning for Jemma, if they were going to come at her again, was not doing so with the resources of a small army behind them. Bobbi could handle that.

(No, she reminded herself. Not her. The police.)

“We’d better do this properly, then,” she insisted, fervour quickly overcoming her flustered relief as she returned her attention to the problem at hand. “I think you should go into the station. As soon as possible. Like, tomorrow. I’ll get someone to check you out.” 

“Okay,” Jemma agreed. “I’ll come. Anything to get out of this place for a few hours.”

“Brilliant," Bobbi agreed. Then quieter, to herself, she murmured: “I’m going to make it right.”

Jemma wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to have heard that, but she had, so she replied – just as softly: “I know you will.”

Bobbi met her eyes, and Jemma looked back steadily. Unfazed by her vulnerability. Unresentful about the dangers Bobbi felt she had brought to Jemma’s doorstep. Her face seemed to be saying, _I understand._ The soft smile returned to Bobbi’s face. Satisfied with her success, Jemma smiled too. Hers was a little more smug. 

“Come here,” she beckoned gently. 

Bobbi narrowed her eyes a little, but obeyed, stepping in until her legs were touching Jemma’s bed.

“Closer,” Jemma insisted, tugging at Bobbi’s arm until she leant down. 

Jemma stole a kiss. Bobbi was happy to give it. It felt like the sun should have come up when they pulled apart, but it had not. They just stared at each other, feeling flushed and warm and right.

“Well… that was unexpected,” Bobbi said, after a moment. Jemma tasted like pineapple jelly. That was unexpected too. 

“I know,” Jemma replied. “I just always wanted to do it.”

A lot had happened in a short time between them, but Bobbi remembered that reference. Proud of herself, and feeling quite the object of desire, she was about to go in for another kiss when they were interrupted by a knock. From the doorway, a nurse glared at them sternly. 

“That doesn’t look like official police business, Detective Morse,” she pointed out. “I’d hate to have to call your superiors. These hallowed halls are not to be violated after hours for a _quickie.”_

Jemma bit her lip. Bobbi did a better job at keeping her expression steady, but not by much. For some reason, she had the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Fortunately though, she managed not to, and instead mustered some degree of decorum to reply.

“Of course, ma’am, I apologise. My friend and I have a lot of catching up to do, is all." 

“Well, you can do it tomorrow between the hours of twelve and four.”

Bobbi glanced back at Jemma, who waved her off. 

“Go! I don’t want to get you in trouble.” 

“I’ll come bust you out as early as I can.” 

“Does that mean you’ll be checking me out?” 

Bobbi smirked. “It most certainly does.” 

The nurse cleared her throat. Bobbi ducked her head, with the decency to look a little chagrined, and took her leave. Jemma turned her attention back to the note she’d made in her planner earlier. Turning the page pointedly back one, to the current week, she made another. 

_Crime solving & juice!_

She added a love heart, for good measure, and smiled as she settled down to sleep.


End file.
